


Fighting Undyne

by morefishplease



Series: Comfy Fish Stories [3]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Concussions, F/M, POV Second Person, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 07:16:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10566318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morefishplease/pseuds/morefishplease
Summary: What it says in the title. Due to having originally been written and posted for a different site most of my stories' titles are just descriptions of the story, and I'm too lazy to make up meaningful titles for everything.





	

"How I ride, why I ride, never really had ta try

I, I, I eeuuhh

Nevermind that, black jack

Needle to da mainline junk prepared in a head that

Never came up for air

Fallin' apart can't get a grip

Don't give a fuck if I did -"

 

The song fades to tinniness as you take the earbuds out, pull the jack from your phone, toss both on top of your bag. Undyne cracks her knuckles then her neck, swiveling her head around and coaxing a series of gunshot staccato from her vertebrae. You wince in spite of yourself. You finish wrapping your hands and then smooth your hair back, a carefree smile coming easily to your lips. Undyne sneers at you. Big teeth, you observe, so snaggly that a few poke outside of her lips when her mouth's closed. Cute, though.

"What are you staring at?" she snaps. You shrug.

"I was just making sure I'd remember what your face looked like before I rearrange your features for you," you quip. You're rewarded with a lip curl. Undyne spits, glares at you through her one narrowed eye. A few cars pass by, splashing water up into the mouth of the alley. Nobody seems to notice you; a portrait by moonlight: Undyne at one end, hair billowing, gibbous waning moon pouring its tired light against her back, oozing out a ten-foot shadow from her feet. You must look very small; she's a head or so taller than you and glares down at you confidently.

"You better watch yourself, human," she says.

"Yeah, whatever. We gonna fight or what?"

She sinks back, puts her fists up, and you bob on your feet, back and forth, back and forth. Keeping mobile, you remind yourself, is the key to winning a fight like this. The alley might be narrow but it's not that narrow. You've still got room to circle, and room to retreat. For the moment the two of you are content to observe each other. You've got one hand loose, up by your shoulder, ready to block, and the other down low, by your thigh. You flex your fingers; Undyne tightens her fist.

She darts in - a strike! You raise up, block, drive her hand low. She brings her knee up to counter but you spin back. If you'd been quicker you could have tagged her just along the cheek, but you didn't think she'd be so fast. She's biting her lip in concentration as she circles back around, and for the moment there is no more banter, no more calculation, only a steady stream of blocks and punches.

Undyne is so aggressive you wonder how she isn't tired already. She sweeps in on you relentlessly, punching at your head, shoulders, neck, gut. You take a few hits that land like thrown bricks, but only in areas that won't wind you, won't knock you down. You keep your stance wide, planted, firm. Your strategy is one of patience. Undyne is getting frustrated - and this compounds her already-obvious weakness: she doesn't know how to kick.

Your opening comes quickly, and you strike like a viper when it does come. All it takes is one unbalanced punch, thrown from her front hand, the one that ought to be guarding her face. She rears back and hammers down at you with a grunt of effort and frustration. If the punch hit it would have broken a bone, but you dart to the side, divert the punch with a gentle push on her forearm. Undyne overbalances, leans over too far, reaches out to catch herself -

WHAM!

You slam into her gut with a gunshot-fast front kick, foot extended. The breath shoots from her lungs in one great gout and she falls like a heap of bricks. You give her no respite and leap on her, pinning her legs with yours and drawing your arm around her neck, bringing her into a headlock. Her gills puff against your arm and you draw back slightly, to give her room to breathe. She lies limp beneath you and you think for a moment that she's trying to trick you.

"You gonna tap?" you grunt - no response. You pause for a moment, stupidly, trying to decide what to do. Your breath is still coming in tight gasps and you haven't shaken the fight out of your system, your thoughts are running slower than usual. Eventually you let up, spring back into a low guard. Undyne doesn't move.

"Oh shit," you say, and you crouch down, flip her over. A dark bruise right above her eye. You peel her eyelid back and mean to check the other, to see if she has a concussion, but you realize the error in that plan. "Shit," you repeat. You look around; there's nothing in the alley save your bags, nobody's noticed the fight. Likely nobody will help if you call or knock on doors.

With nothing left to do you pick Undyne up and carry her back to your car. A second trip retrieves both bags and Undyne's water bottle, and then you're driving. You stop at a convenience store but they don't have an ice pack, so you pull back out, cursing, and drive to the supermarket down the road. Undyne seems practically comatose but you split the difference, rummage around for your notebook. Halfway through your written explanation you hear a whimpering groan as she sits up, holding both hands to her head.

"Holy shit," she mumbles.

"Hey," you say, and she whips her hands down, stares at you mistrustfully. The quick motion jostles her, though, and she only manages it for a second before she winces and curls back up in the seat.

"What happened?" she asks.

"I kicked your ass," you say. She rolls her eyes, winces again. "Might want to take it easy," you say. "I knocked you out, think you've got a concussion."

"Jesus," Undyne says. "Weren't we going to do points or something?"

"We never discussed it, actually," you note, and she nods.

"Alright, that's fair."

It's only now that she seems to notice her surroundings. "Where are we?" she asks.

"My car," you explain. "I had to get you out of the alley and I was going to go get you some frozen peas or something."

"It's cool," she says. "Can you take me home? I've got ice packs, frozen peas, all that shit."

And so you're driving again. Undyne's cool, probably cooler than you'd be about it if you'd gotten hit that hard. At red lights you look over at the fish-girl. She hasn't taken her hand from her forehead but she's holding it less tightly now. Probably a good sign, you figure. You can't help but allow your eyes to wander down her face to her tightly corded neck and down her chest; after a moment she blinks, glances over at you.

"It's green," she says with some amusement, and you mumble something and step on it. You can see her watching you from the corner of your eye but you resolutely avoid eye contact and focus on driving. There's silence for a while, broken only by the soft patter of the rain on the windshield. As Undyne's sweat dries her scent becomes even more powerful; it was noticeable before, a smell like sugar and pepper, but now it's overpowering. When you swallow you can taste it in the back of your throat.

"Listen," Undyne says, "thanks for taking care of me."

You shrug. "It's nothing."

"I'm serious," she says. "Plenty of people would have just left me there."

You can't think of anything clever to say, so you don't say anything. To your side Undyne is looking around, peering in the back of the car. Her eyes flick over the blankets on the seat and the spare clothes littering the floor of the car. She looks back around at you.

"You got a place to stay tonight?" she asks.

"Yeah," you say. "You're sitting in it."

The GPS pipes up, tells you your destination is on the right. You bring the car to a loping halt and Undyne looks out at her house.

"You're welcome to stay, if you want," she says. From this angle the moon shines off her hair like a pale fire glimpsed from a far distance over water, and the lines of her neck and jaw catch the light and cradle it like a baby. For a moment you've lost all language and all that echoes in your mind is the howling of wolves and a painful, clenching need that seems to writhe up out of your heart and up your throat and if you open your mouth it'll spill out everywhere.

Undyne turns back and looks at you, offers you a slow, shy smile. "I don't mind," she continues.

You manage to grunt out a hasty "you sure?" You don't trust yourself to anything longer or more complicated. She nods, gets out, gets her back. She stumbles a little on the drive and you rush to catch her, but she doesn't fall. Her glance shoots daggers back at you and you ease back, let her lead you up the walk and into her house.

"Besides," she says, flicking the lights on, "probably be better if I've got someone to watch me, you know. Cause of the concussion." She gestures to her head vaguely. She tosses her bag to the side and traipses off to the kitchen. You stare as she goes; her hips swell out from her narrow waist and down to her ass, and then it's miles of legs, thick legs, muscles like a horse. You think she must feel your eyes devouring her; if you could see her face you'd see her smirk, run her tongue across her teeth. She opens the fridge, takes out an ice pack, talking about something unimportant: "I forget," she says, turning to you as she lays the pack across the bruise, "are you supposed to sleep with a concussion?" You can't seem to remember.

"Maybe?" you say. "You could probably get away with it."

"Good," she sighs. "I'm tired as hell. You gave me a real beating."

You look around, settle for the couch. You put your bag down and she glances back, hearing the noise. Here it is - cunning flits across her face, just for a moment, right when you're not looking, and she drops the ice pack, makes to stumble. You look up, rush up, catch her. "You alright?" you ask.

"Yeah," she groans, eyes screwed tightly shut to mask a look of triumph. She snakes one arm around your waist, clings onto you. "Got dizzy all of a sudden," she explains.

"Let's get you to bed," you suggest, and you let her lean on you as you walk her in to her bedroom. The smell is even stronger here, if that were possible, and suddenly you're the one who feels weak. Undyne steadies herself on the dresser, slips her top off quickly. Her back is well-muscled and glistening with sweat and it's all you can do to rush to her, press her hips into yours, slip your hands around her breasts. You choke back these errant thoughts and stammer out what you think is an excuse of some kind, but before you can turn to leave, she's grabbed your hand and raised it to her breast. Her nipple is hard and without your bidding your thumb runs over it in slow clockwise circles. She bites her lip and snakes her hand downward, grabs your hardon through your pants.

"Fuhuhuhu!" she snickers. "You thought you were done beating me up tonight?" As your lips meet her tongue writhes into your mouth and you discover that she tastes exactly like she smells. You fall backward on top of her as she moans softly and bites at your earlobe, running her tongue around it; as you struggle feverishly with her pants, an errant thought flits through your mind: perhaps you should have let her win.

**Author's Note:**

> It's always a challenge to write action scenes without getting bogged down; if you get too descriptive, it gets boring, but if you're not descriptive enough it doesn't feel like an actual fight. There are always stylistic reasons to go one way or another, of course, but I think that I hit the sweet spot in this story. The fight is really just a device to get Undyne into bed, of course. This was supposed to be how Undyne and 'you' met, but I was never really satisfied with that.


End file.
